


Dust on Her Head, Dust on Her Feet

by halcyon_autumn



Series: The World In Our Hands [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Muslim Ana Amari, Muslim Character, Muslim Fareeha Amari, Wakes & Funerals, ahahaha when is there not though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyon_autumn/pseuds/halcyon_autumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fareeha Amari sat in a safehouse in Thailand and watched Overwatch fall by her mother’s side.</p><p>They watched the coverage together while Fareeha was on leave, the details rolling in as the Swiss Headquarters went up in flames. Her mother had been utterly silent until Reyes and Morrison were reported dead.</p><p>“I told Reinhardt once that they’d die together,” she said. “Always covering each other on the battlefield, always side by side in the thick of it. You wouldn’t be able to kill one without killing the other.”</p><p>Fareeha Amari and the funerals that she attends - or doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust on Her Head, Dust on Her Feet

**Author's Note:**

> Given that 90% of Egypt is Muslim, I figured that Ana and Fareeha would be too. I didn't know anything about Muslim funeral practices when I started writing. I researched and tried to be accurate and respectful, but it's totally possible that I got something wrong. PLEASE let me know if this is the case. I will be so happy to change anything that needs changing.

Fareeha Amari sat in a safehouse in Thailand and watched Overwatch fall by her mother’s side.

They watched the coverage together while Fareeha was on leave, the details rolling in as the Swiss Headquarters went up in flames. Her mother had been utterly silent until Reyes and Morrison were reported dead.

“I told Reinhardt once that they’d die together,” she said. “Always covering each other on the battlefield, always side by side in the thick of it. You wouldn’t be able to kill one without killing the other.

“The UN will ask me to go to the funeral,” Fareeha said a few minutes later. Her mind couldn’t accept that Overwatch was gone, so instead it reached out for practicalities and responsibilities to fulfill. Sometimes she felt like her entire being existed in the infinitesimal space between her duties – to Overwatch, to Egypt, to her mother. There was so little room left for her to breathe.

Ana snorted. “Overwatch has a rapidly dwindling number of affiliates who are still liked by the public. Angela will be there, I imagine. Any digging into Overwatch will reveal that she objected to every militaristic thing we did. Reinhardt will be too. Maybe Torbjorn. I’m not sure that any of them will go to Gabriel’s funeral.”

“Don’t,” Fareeha said, because she knew what was coming next. “Don’t ask me to go.”

“No one should be buried alone,” Ana said.

“I’ll go to Jack’s funeral,” Fareeha said. “And I went to Gerard’s funeral, after his wife – after what happened. If you’d like, I’ll spit on Reye’s grave for you, but that’s all.” The name felt odd in her mouth. She’d never called him Reyes in life; it had always Uncle Gabe, or Gabriel when she was a bit older and pushing away anything that hinted at immaturity. “Mother, I already went to your funeral. You can’t ask me to go to anyone else’s.”

 _Guess I won that one,_ she thought miserably as her mother looked away.

As awful as it was to watch Overwatch’s death – well, its death throes, because Overwatch had been dying for years – going to her mother’s funeral had still been worse. According to the official records, Ana Amari was buried in southern Egypt. She had cried all through the funeral, though it had been out of guilt rather than grief. Her mother was alive, recuperating in a hospital under an assumed name and learning to see with only one eye. Fareeha had been sent a message that merely read “I am alive, tell no one” when Jack Morrison called to tell her that he was very sorry, but there had been an incident on a mission.

Fareeha hadn’t realized until the funeral that her mother hadn’t told anyone in Overwatch that she was alive. The Amaris were a small family, so it had been only Fareeha and her mother’s sister, Salih, to give _Ghusl_ and wash the body. Instead of the washing, they stood and stared at an Ana Amari-shaped dummy.

Fareeha had built her career on being able to do whatever she was asked, breaking records in the military and shooting through the ranks. But she couldn’t do this. “I can’t lie to them all, _Khala_ ,” she told her aunt. “They’re all grieving her and she’s not even dead. This is wrong. She’s abandoning them, abandoning her responsibilities and it’s – it’s cruel.”

Her aunt pulled her close. “She has a good reason,” Salih whispered. “I may not agree with all of your mother’s choices, but she’s always had a good reason for the things that she does. We have to believe that she has a good reason for this.”

She watched them all through the _Salat al-Janazah_ at the mosque and then as the body was interred. McCree stood a few feet in front of her, hat off, shoulders set like blocks of granite. Angela wore all black despite the heat; Fareeha had never seen her in black before and it made her pale skin look washed-out. In the back of the group, Reinhardt was sobbing quietly. Jack stood beside and didn’t cry, just rested a hand on her shoulder when the body was lowered. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his face.

Afterwards, Jack sought her out. “We were recovering hostages from Talon,” he said, his voice cracking a little with grief. “There was another sniper.”

“That’s how she would have wanted to go,” she told him, and the words sounded so false that she couldn’t believe that the entire room didn’t point and scream “ _liar_!” Her mother had wanted to stop waking from dreams about everyone she’d killed, not get shot in the eye by a Talon sniper. Jack had to have noticed that her mother was struggling and suddenly she hoped, wildly, that he would realize she was lying, that all her mother wanted was to be away from battle. If only someone would call her own it, take the responsibility out of her hands. This was too heavy for her to hold.

He didn’t notice.

Gabriel’s response was the one that almost broke her. He didn’t offer any platitudes or explanations, just looked at her, assessing. _He knows,_ she thought, and her mouth was already forming the words ‘I should have told you’ when Gabriel spoke.

“I lost both my parents when I was younger than you,” he said and oh, this was worse than she’d expected. “It’s gonna be hell, kid. But you’ll get through it.” Then he patted her on the shoulder and left her alone with guilt masquerading as grief. Fareeha couldn’t look at anyone of them, so she stared at the ground. Her shoes were covered in grave dirt. She’d throw them away when she got home.

Later, she did the math. Gabriel would have already been plotting to take down Overwatch by her mother’s funeral. Fareeha never knew if his words had been part of the mask he wore or if he’d meant them genuinely. Maybe both. You could love something and still be angry enough to set it on fire.

In the end, no one asked her to go to the funerals; the UN didn’t want to draw more attention to Overwatch. She went anyway, in full military regalia, to Jack’s funeral. It was smaller than her mother’s had been; most people were trying to distance themselves from Overwatch now, and no one knew if Jack Morrison would go down as a hero or a fool. She saw a few other members there, people whose careers could either take the hit or were already tanked anyway. Reinhardt didn’t cry this time. Angela still looked terrible in black.

Reyes had a small funeral, put on by one of his brothers. She wasn’t invited. Later, she tracked his grave down. Jack’s grave had been simple, stating his name, position in Overwatch, and the years of his life. Reyes’ grave just had the name and years. A few continents away sat her mother’s grave, waiting for a body to fill it. It only had a name.

Fareeha was tired of funerals, of grave dirt on her shoes and tears in her eyes. Dying was a part of life, dying was normal – it ached, but it was an ache you were built to withstand, an ache you could lean into. It was the funerals she hated, and she knew there would be more. One day the bounty on McCree’s head would get too big for even him to dodge. One day her mother would finally rest in the grave that had awaited her for years. They would all fall, friends and family and fellow soldiers, and she would bury them all in cemeteries around the world. She would sprinkle ashes and drop handfuls of dirt onto coffins and walk away to await the day that she’d do it again.

Later, she would meet Soldier: 76 and see Jack Morrison in his stride, in the way he tilted his head a little when he lined up a shot. He still existed in the infinitesimal space between guilt and anger, just enough for her to recognize. She didn’t have to see Reaper to know that Gabriel Reyes was alive; you couldn’t kill one without killing the other, and a living Morrison meant a living Reyes, somewhere out in the world. She was both viciously glad and saddened not to have gone to his funeral.

Instead of thinking about it, she waited for a day off from her position at Helix Security and drove south. For all that she’d dreamed of Overwatch for years, working in Egypt felt right. The desert flew by as she drove, past expanses of sand and scrub and achingly blue sky. Finally she reached the cemetery where her mother’s grave was patiently waiting.

There were flowers, sometimes, at the small austere grave. Fareeha had left some for a few years, though mostly for show. At the moment there were old lilies, brown and desiccated from the heat. She cleared them off and looked down at the grave.

Her mother would return to Overwatch, she knew. Winston had brought it back, turning Overwatch into something else she’d buried without needing to. And Ana would go, despite the breakdowns and nightmares and PTSD, because it was where she was needed and where she wanted to be. Fareeha approved. The Amari women had always done their duty to the people who needed them.

She didn’t know if they’d ask her to join; she’d never been an original member. And – she had responsibilities here, to Egypt and to the ghost of Overwatch that haunted the Temple of Anubis even with the God AI shut down. And Overwatch would always be tarnished by what it had done and what it had allowed to happen. And it was illegal for them to function and – no, it didn’t matter. She still wanted it, ferociously, with the wide unending reach of the Egyptian sky.

Fareeha took one last look at her mother’s grave and, ignoring the now familiar grave dirt on her shoes, left the cemetery behind.

**Author's Note:**

> The initial research for this piece went like this:
> 
> Me: what are modern Egyptian burial practices like? They're probably not too different from what I'm thinking of, but it's good to be sure  
> Internet: Mummies!!!!  
> Me:.....I'm pretty sure that is wrong
> 
> Shoutout to diaryofawriter on tumblr for answering my questions about modern Egyptian funerals and for answering questions about Egypt.
> 
> A note of some of the phrases used (again, please let me know if I'm using any of these wrong):  
> Ghusl - the practice of washing the body for burial in the Islamic religion  
> Khala - "Auntie" in Arabic, specifically the mother's sister  
> Salat al-Janazah - Islamic funeral prayers
> 
> If you wanna say hi or ask questions or ramble about Overwatch thoughts, drop me an ask on tumblr: buckynating.tumblr.com


End file.
